Misdirection
by Besina
Summary: John disappears and Sherlock tries to make head or tails of the clues he finds.


'Sometimes I don't talk for days.' John now thought that Sherlock actually hadn't been exaggerating about that. For a long time he had, seeing how it was difficult to ever shut the man up, but following their last few cases, Sherlock had indeed been silent for days. That hadn't been so bad, actually. Peace and quiet in the flat.

But now Sherlock was ignoring him; at least it felt like it. Had been for over a week – nearly two now. And while John didn't really think Sherlock was doing it intentionally, it still irked him. John wasn't an attention monger, not like Sherlock anyway, but even he appreciated recognition that he was alive every other day or so.

He'd been going out to the pub the last few days to try and feel less lonely, less ignored - face it, less _invisible_. He'd even stopped telling Sherlock where he was going because half the time the man didn't realise he was there, and the other half he probably wasn't listening anyway. He could suss it out on his own – there was no need for John to tell him anything really, not with those instincts.

Tonight there wasn't anyone to go out with. Mike was busy with his wife, Lestrade with work, and Molly simply didn't want to go to the pub. It was rather short notice for his military pals, and he certainly couldn't ask Harry.

He sighed resignedly as he pulled the pub door open anyway and went inside.

Maybe he'd meet someone new, maybe he'd bump into someone he already knew, hell, maybe he'd find a fascinating woman and end up having a fascinating evening back at her place. The optimism wasn't going well. _Not bloody likely,_ he thought, and he sat down at the bar feeling morose.

_Fuck company. Tonight was a night to get drunk. And mean it._

The bartender came over, asking what he wanted to drink.

"What's your strongest?"

"Well, I can do you a Long Island Iced Tea, or Bacardi - absinthe if you're feeling brave."

John slapped his hand down on the counter decisively, "Then absinthe it is."

John had had it once before, only one though, as he hadn't liked it much; he'd felt like he was downing a tincture of slightly bitter potpourri. Tonight it didn't matter though, tonight was for getting drunk, and he wasn't going to do it by halves. Not fancying the release of the fragrance nor the extra time a watered down version would take, he waved away the slotted spoon, sugar cube, and water and downed the undiluted mixture as it was.

The bartender looked at him as though he were mad, but served up another as quickly as John ordered it. After doing the same with ... _he wasn't sure how many more,_ in rapid succession, the barman cut him off with an apologetic look.

"Sorry, mate, but if I don't you're going to rue it in the morning. Why don't we get you a cab?"

As he stood, John definitely felt the liquor hit him, but it was perhaps the most clear-headed drunkenness he'd ever experienced. He nodded at the bartender, put down a generous tip and wandered back out onto the pavement, wondering what next to do with his evening. Drinking certainly hadn't used up much of it.

He wandered a little way further into town, pulled out his mobile and thought about calling Sherlock before the notion struck him as idiotic – _as if his life revolved around the man. Nope_, he thought, focusing on the mental pop of the P, then grinned inwardly_. Nope. Nope. Nope. _It was a fun sound, that. In fact, to prove his independence to himself, he chucked the mobile in the nearest trash bin before continuing on his way, thinking unapologetic comments about his flatmate.

A good while later, he looked around himself and couldn't quite suss out where he was. He'd probably been through it a million and a half times, but it was one of those places you pass through, rather than go to, and now that it was dark, nothing looked familiar. He was also starting to get tired as well as clumsy, having fallen down twice, banging up his hands and knuckles in the process (_that would sting in the morning)_, though he was damned if he was going to go home yet. He looked around for someplace to go, sit, and mull things over - and if we're being entirely honest, to be bitter about Sherlock.

The building he was next to looked to be disused; it was lightly covered in graffiti, but there didn't seem to be anyone about. He tugged at the door hesitantly and found it to be open, so he wobbled rather gracefully inside and up a flight of stairs. Prying open another door, he found a large, open space, cluttered with small piles of burlap bags, from whatever industry used to occupy the building. He flopped down on one of them, prepared to think.

He re-organized the pile briefly to make it more comfortable, then got down to some serious sulking. He did nearly everything for the man, yet it seemed that when Sherlock didn't have an immediate use for him, he was disposable. He felt used. And sullen. And stupid. Maybe Sally had been right in warning him off. Not that he thought Sherlock would ever kill him, but sociopaths certainly didn't consider your feelings. They were known for using people, and being damnably charismatic when they wanted to.

In fact, if Sherlock had need of him again, which he undoubtedly would, he knew no matter how much of a grudge he tried to hold, Sherlock would manage to wheedle his way back into his life, _and John would let him_. He was feeling distinctly like a doormat, a very gullible doormat. Friends don't treat each other like this; that was clear. So, his 'friendship' had been one-sided –- he'd been duped. With that thought came the feeling of a weight dropping on his chest and for a moment he fought to breathe. The best friend, the most exciting, extraordinary friend he'd ever had, had been a lie.

Tears began to form in his eyes and he curled into a tight ball on top of the nest of burlap, still clutching at the phantom pain in his chest. He suddenly felt more alone than he ever had in that disturbingly small flat he'd lived in. He choked out a sob, closed his eyes and determined to sleep.

And he would have, except for the streetlights flooding in through the windows. One was particularly annoying, piercing directly into the room. He tried adjusting his position, tried throwing his arm up over his eyes, even tried balancing a bag on his face to shut the damn light out – but it always slipped off whenever he moved. He was nearly ready to give up when he looked around, realised there was not likely to be anyone there who would see him, and feeling a bit like a scarecrow, simply pulled two of the bags over his head. There was enough gap in the fabric to breathe and it worked perfectly to block out the streetlamps. Scarecrow John lay back down, hummed 'If I Only had a Brain' as sarcastically as possible, and cried silently for having been such a dunce, until his eyes were puffy and sore, and somewhere along the way he managed to fall asleep.

In fact, he slept all the next day, done in by both exhaustion and the amount of alcohol he'd imbibed, and completely unaware of the panic he'd induced in Sherlock when he'd failed to come home.

* * *

Sherlock noticed, of course he'd noticed. He might not have been talking, but that's because he was thinking. He still noticed everything John did. The reading, the typing, the bathing, the sleeping, the eating, the door-slamming for no appreciable reason and of course, the coming home after his regular hours at the pub.

But John hadn't come home, and his absence was acutely noted by Sherlock. So much so, that he'd had to _stop_ thinking. In fact, he _couldn't _think. John was supposed to be home. He wasn't home. He was far overdue. How could he think if John wasn't where John was supposed to be? He checked his phone for messages. Nothing. He sent a text:

_Where are you? –SH_

Nothing.

_Did I do something? – SH_

Still nothing.

_John, how much blood can I lose before it's time to worry? –SH_

_That_ should have worked, even if nothing else had. Angry or not, John had never turned away when Sherlock was hurt. Sherlock started to panic, mildly. Of course, he wouldn't admit it was panic. He was concerned, that's all… _very_ concerned.

He threw on his coat and went to retrace John's movements. He knew he'd gone out to the pub, by the time it had been, the way he'd grabbed his coat, and the direction he'd turned when he'd left the flat. Of course he'd noticed.

_Sometimes_, Sherlock Holmes didn't get everything right.

_Sometimes_ he didn't get _any_ of it right.

_Sometimes,_ (times like these), events just seemed to arrange themselves in a way that led him right down the wrong path, but miraculously into the right place.

Sherlock started at John's favorite pub. There were others he frequented, but none so close, and he'd check them all if need be, but it didn't get him very far. The shift had changed (of course), and no one recalled seeing John, not that they would have been around at the same time anyway. So, short of starting a bar fight, there'd really be no reason for the night shift to have mentioned him to the day shift. Sherlock sighed and moved on.

John didn't have a current girlfriend, not that he couldn't have picked one up, but usually he'd text Sherlock to let him know he'd be back late the next day, or even more usually, to tell him not to fucking bother him tonight with texts or calls or '_So help me Sherlock, I will break your fucking neck.'_ John got blazingly grumpy when his sex was interrupted.

Sherlock went back to John's favorite haunt since, even though no one remembered him, it was most likely where he'd been. He stood outside the door and turned around, noting everything in every direction. For once, nothing popped immediately to mind; it came instead as a slow trickle. The pavement only ran along one side of the street, and it was unlikely John would hail a cab for the short walk home, so he most likely had either gone the other direction by cab _(unlikely, John is frugal – would walk first),_ or by foot _(much more likely, unless his leg was acting up, which it hadn't been, lately)._

So Sherlock went in the direction opposite home, hoping to find _something_. And something he did find, indeed. By mere coincidence, there _had_ been a drunken fight the night before, just not in any of the pubs. It had been in an alley, just off the pavement, near the bin where John had tossed his phone.

The altercation between the two men, neither of whom were John, but were similarly built, ended up getting rather bloody, the bin tipped over, the phone spilled out, and eventually kicked into the street where it was promptly run over by a car, shattering the screen. The dustmen had come by that morning, cleaned up the mess from the bin and set it back down where it was supposed to be, never noticing the smashed mobile on the street.

Sherlock, whose eyes had been scanning the ground, immediately saw and lunged for it. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand, the wear patterns on the dial pad were John's. Nevertheless, he experimentally dialed the number. The phone gave a sickly sort of noise and promptly died.

_So, John's phone. In the road. Destroyed. On purpose or by mistake? _

John wouldn't purposefully destroy his phone, _though he may have lost it_. But the blood spatter on the pavement and the signs of a scuffle made Sherlock's heart, what there was of it, leap into his throat; memories of a pool, late at night riding unbidden into his head. Someone had taken John?

Again?

Why? _Well that was obvious – Sherlock, that's why._ They'd taken him and tossed his phone; that much was clear.

Sherlock's mouth twitched nervously at the corner. This was not good. If they'd wanted something from Sherlock, they'd have called by now. If they didn't want something from him – if this was just revenge, they wouldn't need to. They would simply leave the husk of John somewhere; or if they really wanted to drive him to distraction, they wouldn't leave anything at all - they'd simply leave him to wonder and self-recriminate for the rest of his life.

Abductions took place quickly, yet there were no signs of tyre tracks speeding away from the kerb. There was no parking on this street, so it was likely a waiting car would have been noticed – that didn't mean much though, and criminals could be stupid, often were, or they wouldn't be so easy to catch. Still, if it wasn't a car, the only other place to effectively take a hostage and keep him out of sight would be down the alleyway. As that looked to be where most of the scuffle had taken place, Sherlock thought it best to start there.

Now, John had _not_ taken the alley; he'd continued on his wobbly way down the street, thinking rude things about Sherlock. But all the signs he'd found pointed Sherlock to the alleyway, so off he went. This particular alleyway branched and divided multiple times as it wound 'round the backs of shops, pubs, and whatnot, turning back in on itself, ending in numerous cul-de-sacs, and finally wandering toward the old, run-down industrial part of town. Rather than physically run down all the possibilities, Sherlock took a moment at the first branch and consulted his mental map of London, running all the routes in his head before determining the old industrial center to be most promising, and he started making his way toward it.

It was sheer coincidence that this alley came out not far from the old factory where John lay sleeping one hell of an emotional - and alcoholic - one off.

Forty-five minutes later, with no further clues to show for it, Sherlock emerged onto the abandoned street, lined with now-useless remnants of its industrial past. There were a small handful of graffiti artists and dubious-looking sorts about, but even they didn't seem to live nearby, and they certainly didn't like the appearance of Sherlock, shying away from him since he obviously didn't belong there.

There were no further clues as to John's whereabouts and Sherlock was preparing to search each and every warehouse, factory, and shipping dock he came across until he did find him. He was actually debating with himself on calling in Lestrade on this one, since he'd need much more manpower to cover the entire area before dark again.

He'd lifted his mobile from his pocket just as a screech echoed and a girl came barreling out of a factory, nearly plowing down one of the boys decorating the outside of the building.

"There's a body! Leg it!" she called, before making her break for anywhere-but-here.

Sherlock's blood froze, or at least it felt like it did. He suddenly had no feeling in his body and it seemed to have gone quite cold.

Hesitating only a moment, he dropped his phone, running toward the building the girl had just emerged from. After barreling into him during his bid for escape, another called back to Sherlock, "We didn't do it, mate!" before disappearing with the others.

Sherlock greatly missed John's Browning, but bumping the door open, he reached down to make do with a length of wood. He moved slowly around the ground floor, making sure it was secure, before stepping cautiously onto the first stair. It squeaked, and Sherlock held stock-still waiting for any sign of movement from above, before pressing his back against the railing and continuing on.

Coming to the next landing, he found a thick, steel door, shut, but with a grimy window set into it. Peering briefly up the stairs, he took his chance and looked in. _Oh god, there was a body._ Smack dab in the middle of the room. Head covered with a sack, apparently not moving. Wearing John's jacket. A bit of bile came up his throat. Sherlock forced the door open and stepped inside, too upset to bother checking for anyone else.

The body was curled in on itself and quite still; it was deathly silent in the room. He stood for moments halfway between the door and where John lay. Then a noise greeted him. Possibly the most wonderful noise in the universe: John snored. Sherlock closed his eyes in relief for just a split second before he dashed over to John, pulling the bags off of his head, one after the other, then gently pulling him upward and slapping him awake.

"John!"

John shifted muzzily.

Sherlock saw the puffed-up eyelids, so dark they looked bruised, took in John's drowsy, disoriented state, the scrapes and cuts on his knuckles, the bags that had served as a blindfold in bringing him here. There'd been a scuffle, then someone had drugged him, which explained the disturbing lack of clues throughout the alleyway – he'd no longer been in any fit state to fight.

"John!

*_pat*_

"What'd they give you?

*_two more not-quite-so-gentle pats*_

"Who was it? Did you get a look? Hear any names? … John?!" Sherlock was starting to panic again.

_John was still out of it, obviously they'd counted on the drug putting him out for much longer than this – they'd left him here, secure in their belief that he'd still be here when they came back._ Well, Sherlock wasn't going to be having any of that. He could figure out who they were later. Right now, he needed to get John out.

He looped John's arm around his neck, grabbing the hand that came around with his own, bracing him with his other arm around John's waist and hauled him to his feet. John promptly turned sideways, doubled over and vomited all over the floor. Something foul and green. It reaked of bile and something acrid smelling … Poison? Oh god, he'd have to get him home to check. Trying to get himself into a calmer mindset, he reminded himself that if it had been anything horrifically dangerous, it would have killed John by now. Somehow that thought didn't help.

"Sh'lock?" John moaned, then started crying, huge, heaving sobs.

Sherlock was at a loss. _John didn't do this. The worst he ever got was a little teary, save for the nightmares. Something awful must have happened_. Still it was his priority to get John out, back home, and safe.

"Work with me John. Hand around my shoulders. Step with me. I've got you."

John was very unsteady on his feet but they made it out of the room and down the stairs in the awkward dance of the long-limbed and dangerously intoxicated (or drugged, as Sherlock's mind insisted).

He managed to get them both to the street and flagged down a cab.

* * *

Manhandling John up the stairs, Sherlock finally got him onto his own bed (closer, easier to keep an eye on), then disappeared for a moment before forcing a sweet liquid down his flatmate's throat. Ten minutes later, John was throwing up in body-wracking waves, emptying his stomach of any and all contents into a bin Sherlock had placed beside the bed, and dry heaving for another twenty.

More tears spilled from his eyes, but at least those could be accounted for.

As soon as his body stilled again, Sherlock forced a dose of activated charcoal down him as well, straddling his stomach to do so. At least this concoction, though very nasty, didn't make him vomit again.

When Sherlock was sure it had all been swallowed and dismounted his still somewhat delirious flatmate, John curled back into a ball, clutching at his poor stomach muscles and trying to soothe away the pain.

Sherlock fluttered near the edge of the bed, unsure now what to do. The first part had been easy: get John home, flush any toxins from his gastric system. Done. He thought for a moment. Second: provide comfort and seek answers.

He sat down hesitantly on the side of the bed and ran his hand over John's back, repeatedly. It was the best he could do, really. He rose, fetched the med kit, treated John's knuckles, and looked him over as much as the curled-up ball-of-resistance would allow, for any further injuries.

Finding none, Sherlock sank down on the floor next to him, pushing the bin away and smoothing John's hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead, not that it was long enough to stay that way, but it seemed to help a little. He thought about questioning John, but as he was nearly asleep, Sherlock did a very unusual thing and let it slide. Let John sleep; he could still get the information he needed later. Moments after John drifted off, Sherlock did too, slumping unconsciously against the side of the bed.

Evening came, John stirred a little, then made a mad dash for the bathroom. Sherlock awoke to retching noises and padded in silently after him, handing John a warm, damp flannel to clean himself up with once he was done.

"Can you remember anything?"

John thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Not much. Remember I stopped by the pub for a bit, think I was a little upset with you; after that is extremely fuzzy."

John being upset with him was nothing new. Sherlock sighed. He'd go back tonight, but chances of anyone who'd brought John to the factory remaining there were virtually nil. He could have scoped it as soon as he'd gotten John home (and detoxed), but didn't really trust anyone but himself to take care of his blogger, so the lead, as thin as it was, had now been effectively lost - especially if John didn't remember anything.

"Names, faces, anything?"

"Sorry, no. I feel a right mess though."

"Food?"

John looked about to retch again.

"Bad suggestion," Sherlock amended and quickly scooped up John's hand, led him to the sofa, where he sat John down and tucked him in with a soft blanket, switching on the telly to one of John's favorite shows.

A few moments later, Sherlock sank down beside him, John tilting into him as the sofa cushions sagged that way. Sherlock hesitantly put an arm around John's shoulders and held on. _No one_ was going to get his blogger again.

Over the next few days, bits and pieces of what had happened floated back to John, mainly his binning the telephone and laying down to sleep on the stack of burlap bags; and he compared the reality of the situation to what Sherlock had imagined. The pieces fit and it was a completely plausible explanation of the data. He found himself at an impasse on whether or not to inform Sherlock – his recall was still spotty, and there were large gaps remaining, but he was fairly certain he hadn't been kidnapped.

On the one hand, Sherlock would be relieved, and upset at John for having made him worry, but mostly bitter about having gotten it wrong. Things would not be pleasant for quite a while. There would be misdirected snappiness and snarky comments for weeks, maybe months.

On the other hand, Sherlock's attention _had_ finally turned to John. He didn't quite feel right that it took incidents like getting kidnapped, real or imagined, to get that attention, but he felt valued for the first time in quite a long while, and to be quite honest, he was basking in it. Better to let it be, he thought, not completely unselfishly. (And this is where something _a little not good_ went _*ping*_ in his brain - but we'll talk more about that later.)

He cuddled back up next to Sherlock on the sofa, where they'd been keeping camp for the last few days, and sighed as Sherlock, uncharacteristically affectionate, slung his arm around his shoulders. _God, it felt nice to be wanted._

_*Ping*_


End file.
